


conscious actions

by catbeans



Series: autistic luke Stuff [3]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, YOU get autistic projecting! and YOU get autistic projecting! EVERYONE gets autistic projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbeans/pseuds/catbeans
Summary: Everyone had skills and everyone was lacking in some: his impulse control might leave something to be desired, and sometimes he couldn't quite read the room, but he had fast hands and faster reflexes, and he knew how to watch, knew how to put the pieces together until he could read the room, even if it took some more thought to get there.





	conscious actions

**Author's Note:**

> i explain some of this in the end notes just cuz i feel like it was less straightforward than the fic with luke, ALSO, references some other stuff ive put in fics (like luke having scars from the force lightning, some background for han i kind of just made up in a previous fic like how he found chewie..i havent actually seen solo still...i apologize) but can probably stand on its own for the most part

It was never something Han had consciously thought of as setting him apart.

Everyone had skills and everyone was lacking in some: his impulse control might leave something to be desired, and sometimes he couldn't quite read the room, but he had fast hands and faster reflexes, and he knew how to watch, knew how to put the pieces together until he  _ could _ read the room, even if it took some more thought to get there.

It was a boon when he was young; other kids might get impatient and reach for a wallet or some trinket to sell off later too soon, too noticeably, and it didn't take long for him to earn a reputation as someone who could both keep watch--and do a good job of it--and do the actual lifting without getting caught with nearly the same frequency as the other street kids he knew.

Less helpful was the undercurrent of anger that didn't seem to go away. He knew better than most that fairness only applied to those who were in a position to bargain for it, but it wasn't given freely, and that wasn't really fair at all.

If the rules only applied to the people who were lucky enough to be in a position to make them, he learned, they might as well be breaking them, so he might as well, too.

His resolve about that slipped when hunger and medical care consisting of little more than a box with some bandages and floss and cheap alcohol in place of real disinfectant won out over that anger towards the ones making the rules; he had to stamp it down each time he put on his uniform, each time he forced himself not to question what he was told to do, where he was told to fly and what he was told to shoot at--what, he had to tell himself, not who, don’t think of it as who--but the undercurrent of it grew, harder to stifle until the day he lowered his standard-issue blaster from his previously steady aim at the bleeding, hidden Wookie, even knowing that it might get him shot.

He broke one of his own rules, that time; survival was always the priority, taking precedence over just about anything else, but there was a point where his survival coming at the cost of someone else’s became too much to justify.

The rules had never been fair to him, but in trying to survive within them, he realized he was turning into one of the people who had made them unfair in the first place.

He broke a second rule after that: trust wasn't given freely, either, or easily, opening up too many variables that he couldn't control and too many possibilities for it to go wrong. It was an uneasy trust at first, built on necessity and the fact that both of them could suffer if one of them betrayed it, but Han could make his own rules after that.

 

Han had never had a space of his own before.

Even when he almost, maybe, kind of had, it had come with conditions, orders that needed to be followed from one person or another, never on his own terms, and none of those places had felt like a home until he felt it in the Falcon.

It opened up possibilities he hadn't even fully realized he had been missing out on.

On every other ship he had worked on or piloted, there were always improvements that could have been made, even just minor tweaks to save fuel or time or get around limitations that were always seen as a given and rarely as a problem that could be solved; certainly never a problem that  _ he _ would be given the chance to solve, with experience but no credentials or formal education.

Han was  _ giddy _ with it.

“Oh, you’re a beauty, aren't you,” Han mumbled, barely noticing the grease he smeared on his forehead as he pushed his hair out of his eyes to get a better look at the wires above him. “Load of junk, my ass…Chewie, you got the--?”

He didn't have to finish his sentence before he felt something bump against his leg, dragging his heels against the floor to pull the creeper out from under the repair hatch.

“Thanks.” Chewie grunted in response as he pushed himself back under. “You think the jump would be smoother if we just skipped over the aux’ converters--?”

Chewie snorted.

“No, obviously, but if we just connected the compression system to the main power line with a thrust capacitor from a DX-40 instead--that thing takes off like a dream--”

Chewie interrupted him with another growl.

“I  _ know _ it was just that one time, but could you imagine if we hadn't been hijacking it?” Han paused for a second to unclip a wire from its designated plug. “Might have to get one of those, uh, plug things too, but they have the same output, pretty sure they only make them different sizes so you have to use what it came with. Just damn greedy.”

Chewie was suspiciously quiet for a few seconds before letting out a low grumble.

“No way to know until we try it.”

Chewie snorted again.

“Yeah, I get us killed, I owe you a drink,” Han said. “But you better save your credits, ‘cause this is gonna be going smooth as butter and I've been feeling those bright fruity mixed drinks with the umbrellas.”

 

Han would be getting his little umbrella.

His heart had been hammering as he flipped the controls to get ready for takeoff, only partly out of the fear that he had been wrong and they would, at best, get nowhere and have to spend more time and money repairing it to the way it had been before; it was more anticipation than anything else, the usual rush that came with the thrum of the engines starting up and the warmth he always felt from the bright, blinking lights on the dashboard, the buildup before the lurch of the ship leaving the ground paired with the thrill that  _ he _ had done it, he had been the one to put the pieces together to make  _ his own _ ship better, now entirely, uniquely his.

He looked over at Chewie with his hand on the last lever.

Chewie waved him on, and Han threw it forward.

The thrumming grew stronger, buzzing under his feet and through the chair just before that second of weightlessness as the Falcon lifted up into the air, the lights still blinking steadily with their message of everything going as it should be.

“That’s it,” Han murmured, running his palm over the next lever before gently easing it down, his leg starting to bounce as the Falcon drifted smoothly forward. “Oh, I  _ love _ you.”

Chewie snorted, but Han couldn't be bothered to care.

There wasn't quite the same rumbling that Han had always felt before, and he had kind of liked it, but he knew that its absence was nothing but a good sign.

He waited until his ears popped, swallowing thickly around the crackly feeling until he could hear clearly again, his hands rushing over the controls as they left the atmosphere.

“Chewie,” he said, looking over again, but Chewie had already put in the coordinates for their test destination. “Punch it.”

The thrumming under his feet was quickly overshadowed by a tight, almost trembling pause, but only for a second before the Falcon shot forward through the star systems stretching out into long, bright lines from their usual specks as they rocketed into hyperdrive.

Han bounced his heels with an excited shout. “I told you! I told you that would work.”

Chewie rumbled at him and flicked the controls for the autopilot.

“If we were gonna explode, we would have exploded by now,” Han said.  _ “Too soon to tell, _ come on. Let me have my fun.”

Han had picked out their test destination for the bar near the port; he had known it would work.

 

Han always went for the same booth.

He liked the security of it: back to the wall, clear view of the door and the bar and most of the rest of the Cantina, no surprises that he couldn't see coming.

His eyes narrowed on the old man talking to Chewie by the bar, but he didn't look for too long, looking around the room with a casual, practiced laziness.

He didn't focus on much else but the door; he couldn’t make out too specifically what Chewie and the man were saying through the rest of the noise and the music, but he could hear their tones, the old man’s clearly guarded and just as practiced as Han’s put-on nonchalance.

That raised some questions.

His clothes did, too.

Han didn't pay much attention to the boy with him at first; nothing about him looked practiced, too naive to strike him as any sort of threat or concern, but his focus was suddenly drawn away from the door when he heard a shove, the boy toppling back against another table.

Han moved his hand to his blaster, but he didn't need to use it before the bartender shouted at the customers all reaching for theirs at the same time; he didn't move his hand away just yet, and he was glad not to have when the air crackled and a sharp, glaring light swooped down from the old man’s hand to cut deftly through who he had to assume had first shoved that boy.

The bar went silent, the light receded, and the old man gestured to Chewie.

Han took a deep breath and leaned back again.

He didn't look up until the three of them had come closer, raising an eyebrow as they sat down across the table while Chewie slid in next to him with a couple quick growls.

“Chewie here tells me you’re looking for passage to the Alderaan system.”

“Yes, indeed,” the old man said. “If it’s a fast ship.”

“Fast ship?” he asked. “You never heard of the Millennium Falcon?” 

“Should I have?”

Han didn't manage to stop himself before he realized the old man was goading him on. “It’s the ship that made the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs.”

The old man looked incredulously to the boy and back to Han.

“I’ve outrun Imperial starships, and not just the local bulk-cruisers, mind. I’m talking the big Corellian ships now,” Han said. “She's fast enough for you, old man. What's the cargo?”

“Only passengers,” the man said. “Myself, the boy, two droids, and no questions asked.”

Han huffed a laugh. “What, some kind of local trouble?”

“Let’s just say we’d like to avoid any Imperial entanglements.”

That gave Han pause; the boy looked to be the right age for deserting, if that was what it was about, but that alone wouldn’t explain why the old man had to come with him, or the droids.

But Chewie had already brought them over, must have had a good reason.

“Well, that’s the trick, isn't it?” Han said. “It’s gonna cost you something extra. Ten thousand, in advance.”

“Ten  _ thousand?” _ the boy nearly shouted. “We could almost buy our own ship for that.”

Han snorted and looked from the old man to him. “And who’s gonna fly it, kid? You?”

“You bet I could,” he said, visibly bristling; maybe a little too hot-headed to be a deserter, he wouldn’t have lasted long enough for that. “I’m not such a bad pilot myself, we don’t have to sit here and listen--”

The old man tugged him back down before he could stand up fully. “We don’t have that much with us,” he said to Han. “We could pay you two thousand now, plus fifteen once we reach Alderaan.”

“Seventeen, huh?” That raised some more suspicions--they had to have gotten themselves into something--and the possibility that he wouldn’t get the next fifteen, but if he did...Chewie did nothing to indicate that he should say no. “Okay, you guys got yourself a ship. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready. Docking bay ninety-four.”

“Ninety-four,” the old man repeated, but Han wasn't looking at him anymore.

He tilted his chin towards the entrance, pointedly glancing at the body near the bar. “Looks like somebody’s taking an interest in your handiwork.”

The boy went stiff as he and the man looked back, the same time as the bartender gestured towards them; they sped off before the Stormtroopers had the chance to look over, leaving him and Chewie alone in the booth.

Han waited until it looked like they had lost interest before he turned to Chewie and said,  _ “Seventeen? _ They must really be desperate, this is gonna save our necks.”

Chewie snorted with a small nod, but before Han could get up, he saw a movement by the door out of the corner of his eye that made his heart beat a little faster once he got a better look; he took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall again, his posture purposefully loose.

“You go back and get the ship ready.”

Chewie nodded again and left a couple credit chips on his way out, and it was only another few seconds before that slimy sack of shit crossed the room, not even trying to be subtle with his hand hovering by his blaster.

“Going somewhere, Solo?”

“Yes, Greedo,” Han said. “Matter of fact, I was just going to see your boss. Tell Jabba I’ve got his money.”

He hadn't really been expecting that to work, too obvious of an out; Greedo sat down across from him, pulling his blaster from its holster.

“It’s too late for that, you should have paid him when you had the chance,” he said. “Jabba’s put a price on your head, enough that every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you by now. I’m lucky I found you first.”

“Yeah, but this time I’ve got the money,” Han said.

“If you give it to me, I might forget that I found you.”

“I don’t have it  _ on _ me,” Han said. “Tell Jabba--”

“Jabba’s through with you,” Greedo said. “He has no time for smugglers who drop their shipments at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser.”

“Even I get boarded sometimes,” Han said, lazily stretching out his arms before leaving his hand over his blaster, unclipping the holster and switching off the safety. “You think I had a choice? It’s not like he would have gotten his money at all if I had been captured.”

“You can tell that to Jabba,” Greedo said. “He may only take your ship.”

Han’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Over my dead body.”

“That’s the idea,” Greedo said. “I’ve been looking forward to killing you for a long time.”

He really did talk too much. “Yeah, I bet you have.”

Greedo raised his hand; he had given Han more time than he needed to tilt his blaster up slightly under the table, shooting him square in the belly before Greedo even had the chance to move his finger over the trigger.

Han holstered his blaster again as Greedo’s body toppled out of the chair and onto the floor.

He downed the last of his drink, carefully stepping over Greedo on his way to the bar, pulling out a few extra credit chips to leave for the bartender.

“Sorry about the mess.”

 

Han hadn't planned for this.

He was starting to feel like no amount of reward money could be worth how  _ sticky _ the Stormtrooper uniform felt without any airflow under the plastoid armor--even if they did find that princess, which was seeming less and less likely--and it only made it harder to try to keep his breathing steady as he walked through the halls with Luke, Chewie between them with the shackles left unlocked around his wrists.

“This is not gonna work,” he whispered, glad for the mask keeping his face covered; he didn't know if he would be able to keep a straight expression, biting the inside of his cheek each time they passed an actual officer on their way to an elevator.

“Why didn't you say so before?”

“I  _ did _ say so before.”

The doors closed before anyone else could get on, but they weren't so lucky when they opened again, another officer looking skeptically at Chewie when they got off.

“Where are you taking this…” he started to say, his nose wrinkling, “thing?”

Chewie growled, but he stopped when Han nudged him with his elbow.

“Prisoner transfer from block one-one-three-eight,” Luke said smoothly; maybe he had underestimated him a little, Han thought.

“I wasn't notified,” the officer said, turning back to a wide console. “I’ll have to clear it.”

There were only a couple other troopers in the room with the officer. Han looked across the room to check all the exits, counting the cameras and laser gates; he waited a couple seconds until no one was facing them directly before carefully reaching over to unclip Chewie’s shackles, leaving his blaster in easy reach before dipping his head in a small nod.

Luke nodded back at him.

Chewie shook the shackles from his wrists and grabbed Han’s blaster in the same movement, letting out a loud growl as he shot out two of the cameras before taking aim at one of the troopers.

“Look out!” Han shouted, purposefully missing Chewie’s side and hitting the door lock; it would take some work to be able to open it again even from the outside.

“He’s going to pull us apart,” Luke shouted, and Han had to try not to laugh as he shot the last couple cameras; he was turning out to be pretty good on his toes, better than Han would have expected from how impulsive he had seemed at the Cantina.

They didn't have to try so hard anymore.

The guards were stunned for a second, plenty of time for Han to whip around to aim his blaster at the officer, the last one still standing, but not before he hit the alarm button on the console.

“Shit,” Han muttered, ignoring the shouted questions coming through the comlink as he searched through the screen. “We still gotta find which...cell twenty-one-eight-seven, you get her, I’ll hold them here.”

Luke nodded and took off through the one door that could still open.

_ “What’s happening in there?” _

Han pulled the helmet off and cleared his throat; he wasn't prepared for this, he didn't know what to say, but he had to buy some time… “Everything is under control, false alarm, situation normal--”

_ “What happened?!” _

“Had a slight...weapons malfunction, but, uh, everything’s perfectly alright now.” Han ran a hand through his hair as he scrambled for a better explanation, blurting out without thinking, “We’re fine, we’re all fine here, now, thank you, how are you?”

Han nearly banged his head against the console.

Angry slugs and smugglers, he could deal with, he was  _ used _ to, knew all the lines, but he didn't have much time to wish he could just sink into the floor before the comlink buzzed again.

_ “We’re sending a squad up.” _

“Uh, negative, we had a reactor leak here, give us a few minutes to lock it down.” Han frantically looked up towards where Luke had run out, but he was still working on the cell door further down the hall. “Large leak, very dangerous--”

_ “Who is this? What’s your operating number?” _

Han opened and shut his mouth a couple times before shooting the console instead.

“Boring conversation anyway,” he mumbled, before turning towards the hallway to shout, “Luke, we’re gonna have company.”

Chewie grumbled at him and waved his blaster towards the sparking, smoking console.

“Yeah, I  _ know, _ shut up, I tried.”

 

The thrumming of the engines under Han’s feet only set him on edge that time.

Chewie hadn't said a word since they left; it didn't feel like he had wanted to, but he hadn't said anything about that, either.

Han almost wished he would, even if just so he could stop  _ thinking _ about it.

Even when he had first broken his rule, Chewie’s survival at the possible expense of his, he had put it back together, their survival now dependent on each other.

His survival didn't depend on Luke, and flying through Alderaan’s remains, seeing that old man crumple in a bright streak of red light, didn't leave him any other option if he wanted to continue it.

He could feel the engines’ thrumming in his teeth.

Chewie set the coordinates for the hyperdrive, but Han couldn't move his hand any further than the second to last lever.

Chewie grunted at him.

Han took a deep breath, finally risking a look over at him after not making much more than a couple seconds of eye contact since they had taken off.

The memory of finding him hidden and bloody hit Han like he had flown into a wall.

“This is fucked up,” Han said. “We never signed up for this.”

Chewie responded with a low grumble.

Han didn't have to ask who  _ they _ were; he still couldn't stop thinking about all that debris they had flown through not long before, the holograms he had seen here and there of Alderaan when it was still Alderaan, now nothing but dust and rocks.

None of them had signed up for that, either.

Chewie hadn't signed up for how Han had first found him.

“We can’t--” Han started to say, still not pushing that last lever. “What’ll it matter if we just end up dead anyway? We can just leave, they can’t exactly look  _ everywhere…” _

Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't really true, but more than that, he couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that, even if it was, there would still be more Chewies, more street kids pushed to enlisting.

That was about their survival, too--as Han knew better than most--but he had already come to a conclusion a long time ago about how he felt towards one person’s survival at the expense of someone else's, and many more than just  _ one _ person’s, this time.

They weren't breaking the right rules; they were just letting them continue, an exponential cause and effect, more enlisting with more desperate street kids with more enlisting, more Alderaans, more Chewies.

Chewie still hadn't said anything else since Han had trailed off.

“Fuck it,” Han muttered to himself; Chewie already started reentering their coordinates. “One of ‘em is gonna find us eventually, might as well bring the fight to them and get it over with.”

Chewie rumbled at him as the ship sharply swerved back around.

“Yeah, ‘course that’s what you  _ thought, _ shut up.”

 

Han had never been too prone to being overwhelmed.

He was comfortable in the bustle and noise of the bars where he did some of his drops, the mechanical sounds of repairs being done at the ports and the shouted haggling, the smells of the food stalls--other smells there he could do without, but the food never smelled the same from one place to another; even the comparative quiet on the Falcon with Chewie was filled with the lights and the sounds of the engines, telling him when everything was working as it should be and telling him when it wasn't by the change in how it rumbled through him.

Being with the Resistance was different.

He had never felt stuck anywhere, never stayed in the same place long enough to, and he didn't realize just how much of a gift that had been until he didn't have it anymore.

Their first base had been one thing; he could step out if he needed to, if he had the time, could leave for the docking bay or the forest just outside. That  _ stuck _ feeling was still there, without anywhere to fly to or the freedom to decide where he would go next without any ties except for where he would go for his next job, but Hoth was a whole other beast entirely.

He stopped eating at the dining hall, bringing all his food to the Falcon most times, holed up there until it was his turn to check the beacons or his com started beeping with some other thing that needed to be done; it was quieter there, without the generators that always sounded so  _ shrill _ even under what would otherwise have been a pleasant rumbling, but even in the comfortable familiarity of his ship, he could practically feel the walls of the hangar outside it like they were slowly closing in on him.

It didn't help that staying in one place for so long gave him more than enough time to think about the bounty still on his head.

It was too cold even inside to get any real work done on the ship past basic maintenance that still took longer than normal with either gloves or cold-numb fingers slowing him down, but that didn't stop him from trying.

He had a couple tools laid out on his stomach without Chewie there to hand them over, feeling cramped on the creeper with all the extra layers; he didn't mind that part so much, heavy and snug, no need to weigh down his pockets for that same feeling, but it still wasn't exactly convenient.

He swore under his breath as his fingers slipped over a fuse, too small to even be able to try replacing its wire with gloves on. He rubbed his hands together, sticking his fingers under his scarf for a few seconds before trying again, but a wrench fell from his chest before he could get very far with it, dropping underneath the creeper just out of reach without any room to stretch out his arm enough to get to it.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, knocking his elbow against an array of wires when he tried anyway. “Damn it, come on…”

“Do you need help?”

Han huffed. He didn't respond until he had scooted himself out, reaching back for the wrench before sitting upright.

“I need a drink.”

“Is it that fuse?” Luke asked, crouching down next to him to peer into the hatch.

Han nodded. “She's not really a fan of the weather.”

“I’ll try it.”

Han opened his mouth to tell Luke not to bother, but he was already pulling off his gloves, his hands not yet pink enough to be as unsteady as Han’s had gotten.

“Go nuts.”

Han got off the creeper, leaning back against the wall while Luke lay down on it and pushed himself under.

“The wire’s already in there, I just didn't get it plugged in yet.”

“You got it pretty close,” Luke said. “You're gonna have to replace that screw soon, it’s so shaved down I don’t know how it hasn't fallen out yet.”

“Haven't been able to find any,” Han said, pulling his gloves back on before folding his hands under his armpits. “Not like we got the most active ports around here.”

Han almost missed Luke's laugh through the clinking of metal against metal.

“I heard there's a cruiser that broke down a couple days ago, it’s too busted to try to fix,” Luke said. “You might be able to get some pieces from that, they’re going to be breaking it down for parts.”

“I guess,” Han mumbled. He still would have preferred a port.

It wasn't long before Luke came back out, reaching for his gloves again before closing the hatch and standing up, holding a hand out to help Han up. His hand lingered even once Han was upright, their thumbs still linked together without much use of the rest of their fingers.

“You done for the day?” Han asked.

Luke nodded. “Still need that drink?”

Han snorted a laugh and tilted his head towards the loading ramp.

Luke let go of his hand to pick up the creeper, leaving it by the top of the ramp while Han went ahead to his bunk.

It wasn't much warmer in there, but it was enough that he could take off his gloves, tugging his scarf a little higher on his face as he bent down to dig through the drawers under his bed.

Luke had already pushed some clothes out of the way to sit down on the bed by the time Han found a usable bottle.

“It'd be really handy if there was a liquor store around here,” Han said, fumbling for a second to open the cap with his fingers still not fully cooperating before holding it up to his nose. “That’s still good.”

“They would get a lot of business.”

Han huffed a laugh and took a quick drink before handing the bottle over. “That’s not even a joke with how much everyone here could go for a break.”

Luke hummed and took a sip, wincing before giving the bottle back and standing up. “I need some water.”

“You're such a lightweight.”

Luke waved him off before turning into the hallway.

Han kicked off his boots, pulling his legs up to his chest as much as he could with all the layers he had on making him feel like he was wearing a pillow. There was no comfortable rumbling against his back when he leaned against the wall, just the same unsettling stillness that he hadn't stopped feeling since they had first landed.

He took another drink.

Luke came back in a couple minutes later, holding a mug between both hands to keep it from slipping on his gloves as he sat down next to Han again.

“Don’t hog it all.”

Han traded the bottle for the mug, trading it right back a few second later when Luke coughed and held out his hand.

“Don’t think you'd have to worry about that,” Han said. “You get tipsy with a tablespoon.”

Luke narrowed his eyes and grabbed the bottle back.

“Oh, don’t--”

Han barely had time to get a word out before Luke winced again.

“That stuff’s for  _ efficiency, _ not taste,” Han said. “Take it easy there.”

“You're not kidding,” Luke croaked, taking a long drink from the mug; he didn't gesture for the bottle again until Han questioningly held it out for him, only taking a small sip that time.

They passed the bottle and the mug back and forth for a few minutes, Luke taking off his boots while Han stretched his legs out and pulled his scarf down once he was starting to feel that tingly warmth from the alcohol, his fingers finally feeling more fuzzy than numb.

He hadn't realized how much closer Luke had gotten until his elbow bumped Han’s arm as he took off his gloves to stuff them into his pocket, sagging slightly against Han’s side.

Han held the bottle out again, but Luke shook his head, and Han gave him the mug instead.

“Thanks,” Luke said, muffled slightly around the rim of the mug; he was quiet for a minute, his hood tickling Han’s neck before he asked, “How are you doing?”

Han grunted and took another quick drink.

Luke's cheeks were a little pink when he sat up straighter. “I know you don’t like being stuck here.”

There was that, but it felt like something else behind his words, too; Han would be kidding himself if he tried to say that Luke wouldn’t have noticed the second reason he would rather not be there.

“It’s not exactly a party.”

Luke’s touch to his arm was dulled through his coat, but it was still there.

“It’s not forever,” Luke said. “I don’t think anyone wants to be here any longer than we have to.”

“Mhm.” Han took one last drink before setting the bottle down on the floor. “Would've been nice if we could've just stayed on Yavin.”

Luke nodded and slid his hand down Han’s arm to link their fingers together.

“You can’t just put on more layers when it’s that hot, though.”

“You’re from the  _ desert, _ how are you--”

“It got colder at night,” Luke reminded him. “Not  _ this _ cold, but…” He shrugged.

Han let out a deep breath, letting go of Luke's hand to haul him up into his lap, winding his arms tight around Luke's waist as he pressed his face into the curve of Luke's neck.

Luke wasn't exactly heavy, wiry and on the shorter side, but the pressure on Han’s lap and against his chest still canceled out some of the feeling of the walls closing in on him, leaving him feeling more settled than he had felt since the last time he had been able to go outside without worrying about if he would keep all of his fingers.

“It’s too fuckin’ cold,” Han mumbled, nudging Luke's scarf out of the way with his nose to kiss Luke's neck. 

“Your face is freezing,” Luke said, but he didn't try to get Han to move, loosely cupping the back of his head through his hood. “Let me up a minute.”

Han reluctantly dropped his arms from Luke's waist, wobbling slightly when Luke nudged him to stand up so he could untuck the blankets before gesturing for him to sit down again.

Luke went right back to his lap, wrapping one of the blankets around his shoulders to tuck between Han’s back and the wall; the blanket wasn't big enough to leave much room between them, Luke's knees bumping the wall and his chest pressed snug against Han’s.

“Better?”

“It’s getting there,” Han murmured, the last word muffled as Luke leaned in to kiss him, looping his arms tight around Luke’s waist again. “And you think  _ my _ face is freezing.”

Luke grinned, and he only moved away long enough to pull the blanket up over their heads before kissing him again.

 

Han didn't think he had ever felt so out of place before.

It felt like he was missing more than just a year of his own life; he was missing everyone else’s, too, still catching up even after everyone else seemed to have gone back to normal.

There were pilots he didn't know, pilots he did who weren't there anymore, and it sometimes felt like the only way he still recognized Luke was by the new person with the same face.

Even that wasn't quite the same.

He held himself differently--not quite stiff, but more purposeful, more smooth, his expressions less expressive and not as easy to read. The last time Han had seen him, he had still worn his heart on his sleeve, not much of a filter between his brain and his mouth or his hands, and then suddenly he was like granite.

Han sometimes had to remind himself that it wasn't actually sudden.

It felt like he had to relearn Luke.

He had to watch again, more closely than he had had to before.

He sometimes missed what someone had said to him, watching Luke's face more intently than he was listening, but he kept watching, and Han eventually found him again.

Luke's jaw still clenched slightly rather than just blurting out whatever had come to mind, the corners of his eyes crinkling even when he wasn't smiling with his mouth; he might not nudge Han with his elbow with some comment under his breath about what was wrong with part of someone's plan for a mission, or about what he had been able to do back on Tatooine without any trouble, but his eyes still darted over to meet Han’s, his lips pursed tight in what Han had initially thought was annoyance--or worse, noticing that Han had been staring--before realizing that Luke was keeping back a smile, before he would straighten his shoulders and calmly point out whatever needed improvements.

There was more to it than just that, though.

Han didn't see more than Luke's face and his hands for a long time after that year ended, and even for a while after that, the lights stayed off; Han could feel most of what he couldn't see, less soft around the edges and a little more confident in his movements, the faint difference in what his skin felt like over the jagged lines he didn't let Han see for even longer.

It felt like being let in on a secret once he did.

Both of them could use a shower--a real one, hooked up to the water supply on base without having to ration it--but neither of them were in any rush.

The lights were low, just a small lamp on a crate in the corner of Han’s bunk painting the room faintly yellow; Luke's back was to Han’s chest, his hair tickling under Han’s chin as he absently traced over the lines zigzagging down Luke's arm. Han hadn't touched them at first, didn't want to risk overstepping while it still felt like they were getting used to each other again, not until Luke had asked him for help with the burn cream that left Luke’s fingers uncomfortably tacky and slick. He didn't mind the texture as much, and Luke didn't seem to mind, either.

Han had memorized them eventually, the burst of lines over his chest stretching down his arm and his side, down his thigh where there were a handful of small marks peppered between them by Han’s mouth earlier, the way they felt slightly smoother than the rest of Luke's skin once they had healed more.

Luke shivered when Han’s fingers traced over the sensitive skin at his inner upper arm, twisting slightly against Han’s chest until he was close enough to kiss him.

“You're going to make a mess,” he murmured, muffled against Han’s lips without pulling away.

“That stuff’s already dry,” Han said, scritching his fingers over Luke’s arm, but his point wasn't really made when Luke jerked and almost knocked his shoulder against Luke's chest. “Watch it--”

Luke swatted his hand away and leaned in to kiss him again.

Han grinned against Luke's mouth, loosening his arms from around Luke’s waist just long enough for him to turn around so they were facing each other before holding him tight again.

“All that training and you’re still ticklish,” Han mumbled, lightly brushing his fingers up Luke's spine until he started squirming. “What’s even the point?”

Luke closed his eyes a little too long to be just a blink before the blanket drifted up from where it had been kicked to the foot of the bed, draping snugly over their shoulders before Luke squirmed a little closer.

Han figured getting up could wait a while longer.

**Author's Note:**

> @hansolosbi dot tumblr!
> 
> ANYWAY: i HC hans autistic traits as being different from lukes in a few ways especially since i really dig the HCs of the force being used as an allegory for autism and han being unknowingly force sensitive. lukes sensory issues are more hyperprocessing (having to close his eyes to connect more with the force since its a high-load task and he needs to get rid of some sensory input) while hans are more hypoprocessing (so he really likes the feeling of flying and being in busier places)
> 
> the Rules thing for him is something i dont see talked about as much as things like sensory processing, and its kind of a combination of a few things ive seen in myself and a good bunch of other autistic people i know where fairness is a big deal, and what ends up coming across as authority issues, but is mostly just questioning why certain things Just Are The Way They Are. like there isnt necessarily a reason for someone to be in a position of authority, and they arent necessarily being fair with that position, which can be...endlessly frustrating.....but for han especially, being an orphan and then an outlaw, he gets a pretty clear picture of how Not fair most things are and hes like Fuck That, BUT, part of the reason a lot of autistic people stick to such rigid routines is because we know what to expect and how to act in those situations because theyre familiar, so han 1-has those authority issues with rules that are imposed on him rather than rules he gives himself and 2-has to give himself those rules for his own survival. if he has rules, he doesnt have to think about every single tiny little thing in every single tiny situation, he can just look at the situation and know what to do. since personal survival was pretty much always The Biggest Rule, thats part of why he initially left before going back to help destroy the death star, but then theres the fairness thing which is part of why he turns back.
> 
> also had to go back and add the "we're fine, we're all fine here, thank you, how are you" because i have never in my life seen anything so accurately show Not Having A Script For This. like even right in canon hes sometimes Cool and Suave but put him in an unfamiliar situation and he totally fumbles. hes good at acting but its still just acting and hes not going to do the best job if he doesnt have his lines
> 
> also also i think his smarts are pretty overlooked but he obviously knows his way around a ship which i feel like is a combination of a special interest and very visual thinking, and hes shown a lot of times to be really bright and quick thinking, it just doesnt really come in a Traditionally Formally Educated Package


End file.
